Better with Age
by Khatt
Summary: Twelve and Rose have a bit of trouble with TARDIS navigation, and the Doctor wonders if he's losing his touch.


_SNAP! _

The Doctor spat a curse as he released a smoldering stabilization lever and shook his right hand violently in pain. Rose took charge of their faltering elliptical course, sweeping over from the adjacent panel to take hold of the controls, bringing their ship aright as the time rotor's upper support gears spun, flashing blue lights in wild patterns that danced across the console.

The Doctor brought his hand to his mouth. Rose let him grumble and fume for a full minute before clicking her fingers to get his attention. "You're not twelve," she insisted, "you're twelve hundred. Quit sulking. Our orbit is degenerating. " She looked up to give the rotating blue siren lights an angry glare and they stopped with a meek green-ish flicker of apology.

The Doctor flicked a hyperbolution switch with his free hand to steady the TARDIS's revolution and balanced himself against the edge of the console with one hip. "I am _both_, Miss Tyler, thank you, and I'll sulk as I please," he responded, mumbling around his injured finger. He pulled a kerchief from his back pocket, removed the injured hand from his mouth, and wrapped it tight, "Bloody phalangetical nonsense…"

"I don't see any blood," Rose quipped, peeking over his kerchief. She twirled the transtemporal shift coupling with a swipe of her palm, and a soft hum from the engines ensured them both that their course was safe for the moment.

The Doctor smirked at her wordplay, noticed her looking, then forced a grumpy pout. Rose sighed and set the autopilot before walking around the console, trailing a practiced hand over the delicate controls. When she reached the Doctor, she reached up to caress one of his jacket lapels, tracing her thumb underneath to stroke the silky interior lining.

"You losing your touch, old man?" Rose teased. Leaning in, she narrowed her eyes at him and nudged the Doctor's nose with her own.

"You tell me," he growled. He closed the limited distance between them as though moving into a kiss, and used his good hand to deliver a decisive smack on her arse.

Rose squealed gleefully and ran back in the direction she'd come, keeping to the curve of the console. The Doctor gave chase, proposing several possible methods of gauging his stamina once he caught her. After two complete circuits, the tail ends of his jacket caught a jutting lever, pulling the Doctor up short. Rose, not having seen the incident and focused on maintaining her lead, barreled into him just as he tugged himself free. Both unsteady, they grabbed at the nearby jumpseat.

Where Rose landed with her full weight on the Doctor's injured finger.

His resulting linguistic tirade against gravity, injury, the console, and humans too attractive for their own good was impressive enough in its own right. The fact that the TARDIS censored his every curse with penguin squawks was downright hilarious.

Rose collapsed onto the jumpseat, clutching her sides and crying with laughter, while the Doctor stomped around shouting at the translation protocol circuit in perfect Antarctic Rockhopper.

Their sprint, her laughter, and his rant brought 'round a collective shortness of breath, and (once finished), the Doctor joined Rose in the wide pilot's chair, where he draped one arm over her shoulders. She snuggled into him, sliding one arm between his shirt and jacket so that they shared its soft warmth.

Minutes passed and their breathing slowed. Rose still giggled occasionally. The hum of the TARDIS was steady and reassuring.

"You don't think I'm too old, do you?" The question hung, candid, in the air.

"Hell of an age gap," Rose mumbled into his shoulder.

"Honestly, though, think about it. Given our appearances, to anyone else, I'd be assumed your father. Or your _grandfather_ even, if a region is known for a particular youthful promiscuity."

Rose snorted. "Well, I could be your great-great-aunt twice removed; it's time travel, right? What's age got to do with anything?"

"Well, we might get strange looks."

"You wore a fez to Buckingham Palace," she reminded him.

"_You_ might get strange looks."

His concern was genuine. No matter how far-flung his wardrobe choices may seem, no matter what ridiculous babble he might spout in front of an ill-timed crowd, he never wanted Rose to be uncomfortable with their appearance, especially together. He was older than most species could imagine, though he didn't look a tenth of his age, but by human standards (and they always did seem to end up back on earth for milk or some odd something-or-other) he was very much Rose's elder. He could handle the derision, the scoffs, the misunderstandings – he'd had hundreds of years to get used to it – but he would never force that on Rose. Not if it was preventable.

Rose broke the silence. "You remember that rainforest planet?"

Where was she going with this? "You'll have to be more specific."

"The one where no one wore clothes. Ban against concealed weapons or technology or what have you. You had to hide your screwdriver in—"

"_Don't_ remind me," the Doctor interjected. Repressed memories flooded back, and the phantom pains made him shift in the jump seat. "What about it?"

"Well, we couldn't wear clothes, right? Against the law, wasn't it?"

"Mmm," he hummed. Those memories had _not_ been repressed. The entire visit had become an exercise in muscle control, from literally all sides.

"I kept 'accidentally' walking too close to those big-leafed plants and 'accidentally' covering myself, remember?"

"Indecent minx, you were. You could have gotten arrested, you know," he pointed out.

"Right, and been publically shamed by being forced to walk the market in a smart three-piece suit. Not the worst punishment, if you ask me, and it was worth the risk."

The Doctor recalled the suit. He'd particularly fancied the silver-ish waistcoat, as it reminded him of one he'd worn when his hair had been a mass of brown curls. "What was?"

"That flustered look you get when you can't figure out what to say." She nudged him in the ribs. "Your embarrassed reaction to me having my bits covered." She shifted into his lap and wrapped her arms around his neck. "_So,_ if I'll deck out in half a fig leaf and chance whatever passes on that planet as a trial-"

"It's a bit like roshambo. And fig leaves wouldn't—"

Rose rolled her eyes and put a finger to his lips, leaning in to whisper, "_Focus_." She sat up again. "If I'll do all that just to get you to relax and have a good time," Rose reached up to run a hand through his silver locks, "what makes you think a bit o' gray hair is going to make me shy?"

The Doctor sighed and held her tight to him, laying his head on her chest. "Don't know why I'd ever doubt you."

"You'll learn," Rose teased, kissing the top of his head and resting her cheek on his curls. "How's that finger?"

"Bloody painful, thanks for asking," he mumbled, face pressed into her shoulder.

"Hey, Doc?" a new voice called from the TARDIS's inner hallway. "You mind watching the language in here?"

"Frobisher! That wasn't me, it was _Her_."

"Ah, Rose!" the shapeshifter clapped his flippers. "Excellent enunciation! I didn't know you spoke penguin. Dame of many talents, just like the Doc says, eh?"

"Does he now?" Rose asked, eyebrows raised.

The Doctor waved his injured hand from Rose to the console. "Not her, _Her_! The big spinny blue one! The one that always—"

And his rant once again dissolved into squawks.


End file.
